


Strepitoso

by Querego_sour



Category: Supernatural
Genre: A couple of incidental OCs mentioned, Grumpy Castiel, Hurt Dean Winchester, Pasta, Possession, Probably really badly googled Italian for which I apologise, Sarah Blake - Freeform, Some humour, Winchester-typical carelessness, doesn't really stick to canon anywhere specific, or at least i hope so, some slightly gross details, well a little bit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-09
Updated: 2018-09-23
Packaged: 2019-07-10 08:53:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15945959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Querego_sour/pseuds/Querego_sour
Summary: Like so many problems, it wasn’t strictly anybody’s fault. It just started with a little bit of carelessness and a little bad timing, and sort of snowballed from there.Shockingly, the Winchesters are in a spot of trouble again. It's not an apocalypse, but Dean won't be hearing the end of it any time soon.





	1. Esposizione

Please forgive my incompetent attempts to include Italian phrases for effect. Just imagine it is actual medieval Florentine Italian being spoken, not clumsily Googled word salad. I know nothing about Junction City and have just made things up.  
I haven’t really nailed down exactly whereabouts this random filler episode would fit. I think it probably bobs along somewhere in season eight of an AU just a little bit less cruel than canon. 

\--

Like so many problems, it wasn’t strictly anybody’s fault. It just started with a little bit of carelessness and a little bad timing, and sort of snowballed from there.

Part of the problem was the campanelle. Pasta can be a delicious meal, but under the wrong circumstances it can also be a sticky airborne substance at boiling temperatures. It might also have been inadvisable to be cooking Tuesday night’s dinner to the vigorous accompaniment of Led Zeppelin, II, including the Moby Dick drum solo, which Dean re-enacted with the spatula and the dinosaur-shaped pasta-scooping spoon thingy Charlie had mailed to them a little while back.  
(‘With all due respect,’ the attached note had said.)  
There was, at about the three-minute mark, a moment involving an accidental knock to the gallon pot of seething water and carbohydrates. Dean had momentary flashes of a visit to the ER. Swathes of white bandages. Skin grafts. Fortunately, his reflexes saved dinner, and most of his skin – except for a stinging little splash that caught the left side of his chest, just below the collarbone. Preoccupied with the food, Dean neglected to apply any cold water to the area. He didn’t particularly notice the negligible blister that formed, or the way the edge of his damp undershirt caught it. Partway through his personal heap of pasta, he scratched absently at the slight irritation, and then completely forgot about it. The casserole was really good.

The pasta scooper from Charlie wasn’t the only thing they had received in the mail lately.  
Sitting at the same table, next to the laptop Dean had begun idly tapping away on after dinner, was a small box.

Their old EMF meter hadn’t so much as twitched when they first took a look; the package had been sent to their postbox in town by an acquaintance of Garth’s, on the blithe assurance that the Winchesters could identify the faded markings on it.  
Dean had been a little bit irked that he’d only called to ask if that was okay after it arrived, rather than beforehand, and had chewed him out over the phone.  
“Dammit Garth, you can’t just let people send us stuff. Could be anything.”  
“Dean, Breen’s not gonna send you a bundle of dynamite with an alarm clock taped to it or something. He’s not shady, he’s a good guy. I wouldn’t have pointed him your way if I didn’t trust him.”  
“Why do I give a crap if you trust someone I’ve never met?”  
“Okay, I should have checked first, I’m sorry. Please?”  
Dean rolled his eyes, grumbled a little, and caved, brushing Garth’s earnest thanks aside.  
“Where even are you anyway?”  
“Oh, Alaska.”  
“Hunt?”  
“Nope. Seeing the Northern Lights with my special lady.”  
Dean had to crack a smile at the goofy pride in his voice. It was impossible to be annoyed with Garth for long.  
“Awesome. You kids have fun.” 

Back at the bunker, Dean had complained half-heartedly about this Breen guy not doing his own leg work; Sam, however, was faintly interested by the mystery object, and supposed he didn’t mind having something to occupy himself with. Things had been kind of slow lately – not that anyone was exactly complaining.  
He ambled through the reading room, turning the box in his hands. It was a pleasingly chunky oblong, made from dark, glossy walnut, smoothed by time and handling. It also seemed to be firmly sealed, with no visible lock.  
“So, what do you think?” Sam passed the thing over for his brother to peruse.  
Dean peered at the faded carvings. The leafy twirls and distorted animals looked vaguely Renaissance-ish. He tapped it thoughtfully against the table, and gave his considered opinion.  
“Dunno.”  
Sam shot him a sour, dry look. “Good work.”  
“Maybe we should just get rid of it.” Dean continued thumbing through the crispy, yellowed owners’ guide for the 1949 Cadillac Sedanette in the garage - or tried to. Sam was evidently still not done talking about this box thing. “Nah, we should at least try to see what the inscription says.” Sam slid the box away from the edge of the table. “Hey. In the meantime, what did we decide?”  
“What?”  
“If we encounter a mysterious puzzle box, we will -?”  
“We will not solve it. Yes, thank you Sam, I think I can manage to not fuck with the dibbuk box or whatever it is. Assuming it isn’t just a piece of yard sale trash and the guy who picked it up has a clue what he’s doing. Go do the dishes or something, lemme work in peace.”  
“Online shopping is not work.”  
“Neither is teaching me to suck eggs. Dishes.”  
Sam wasted a scathing look on the back of his brother’s head, and went to forage in the library for anything relevant. 

The box was stuck back in the packaging it arrived in and left on the reading room table, nudged aside by Dean as he was looking online for a supplier that might carry parts for the Cadillac.

Sam found nothing specific in the stacks about boxes – or to be more accurate, he found nothing immediately useful. There were tons and tons of references to different kinds of boxes all over the place. Curse boxes, blessed boxes, puzzle boxes, including, indeed, dibbuk boxes. He’d have to think of another way to narrow it down and pinpoint where this particular one came from, because ‘read the whole library,’ wasn’t exactly a practical method. It was a little bit frustrating; with this Aladdin’s cave of occult knowledge right at his fingertips he was sure the information was there. He just needed the starting point, a corner piece.  
He had a browse through their contacts, thinking who might be good for this sort of thing, and ended up gazing rather sadly at what turned out to be a sparse list; they’d lost access to a lot of support when they lost Bobby, on top of the people who just avoided them on principle.  
He tried the owner of a hunter-savvy store they’d used not long ago; he remembers the guy having a collection of antique arcane bric-a-brac, but not his real name. Dean had just called him Giles and that was all that had stuck in his head.  
He’d probably have to wait for a reply to the message, as it was getting late, anyway. He couldn’t really get into reading anything else, and eventually decided to get some fresh air, and call it a night. 

At no point did either of the Winchester brothers make any attempt to open the box, but a slightly less blasé attitude to mysteriously inscribed antiques might have been in order.  
The evening drew on, and while Sam went for a walk in the cool quiet outside, Dean spent a while distracting himself from himself with a bottle and Alive, She Cried, speakers plugged into his laptop, feet up on the reading room table.  
Neither he nor Sam had chance to notice, say, the EMF reader occasionally stuttering, because neither brother had switched it back on after dinner.  
Possibly, neither of them would have heard it anyway. The music was playing maybe a little too loudly, if Sam’s expression when he came back was anything to go by. One of the perks of living in an isolated bunker was that Dean had been able to acquire some really nice speakers.  
With a certain amount of liquor down him, he couldn’t resist being a jackass, just for a minute; make a pantomime of not being able to hear his brother complaining, just to see the look on his face.  
It’s fun tormenting him, but Dean decides to go hunt up his headphones before Sam gets pissed off and shuts the generator down or something.

He doesn’t hear the little box go

click

\---

Hours later, Sam had found himself some earplugs anyway, and disappeared for the night. Dean had likewise fallen asleep, with his face smushed against the warm keyboard and headphones half-sliding off his head. The only sounds were soft breathing and faint, tinny guitars. The playlist was still running, and had worked its way around to Highway Robbery.  
At 03:42, a weak little wisp of dirty vapour leaks out of the ever-so-slightly open box, and creeps across the polished surface of the table. It’s drawn to the faint melody and sour breath, and finds the warm, living body they lead to.  
Normally acute sense of danger sufficiently addled by Wild Turkey, Dean hardly stirs, only uneasy in his sleep for a moment.

\---

The next morning, Sam is put in a slightly better mood when he gets a call back from not-Giles, who seems to believe in the old-fashioned personal touch. He asks for some photographs.  
Sam is briefly annoyed to find Dean left his overheating laptop on overnight... and obviously not for research. The package containing the antique box is now sitting half-covered by car magazines, ignored. He uses his phone to take a few pictures, and the box gets packed away safely in a locked drawer with some other miscellaneous small relics.  
Not-Giles calls back twenty minutes later. He can’t tell what the markings might be, they’re too worn. Suggests not over-handling it, or at least using gloves.  
“I can’t tell you much you won’t have already guessed – it’s probably medieval European, in overall good condition considering its age.”  
“Can’t you do a little better than that?”  
“For free? That’d be a no.”  
Sam makes an impatient little sound. “Name your price, just get me an accurate origin. The operative word being ‘accurate,’ okay? No spicing it up, no playing it down. I’m not looking to sell it.”  
“Mr Winchester, please. I know better.” Not-Giles pauses for a moment.  
“I can put you in touch with someone else, someone I use for this kind of thing; runs a big antiques business, has a lot pass through their hands. They’ve acquired some of my pieces for me, know their stuff, if you know what I mean. Let me call them and get back to you.”  
“Good, alright, do it. Call me back soon as you get something.”  
“You’re welcome.” not-Giles responds flatly. Sam can almost hear him upping the fee, and wonders what happened to his people skills. Maybe he’s spending too much time with no company but Dean, but hey, what’s new. 

He heads over to the kitchen to grab some kind of snack, settles on yoghurt, then has a look around for his brother to tell him he’s going to go for a run in a little while. He’s nowhere in sight, but Sam can hear the shower and the off-key singing.  
He goes for his run; he sets a fairly hard pace, chasing and catching that comfortable headspace where he’s not really thinking about anything, just moving. 

Later, when he’s shower-damp and has slung on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, he goes to throw together something a little more substantial. He scowls at the mess in the fridge; someone, no prizes for guessing who, has taken random bites out of half the fridge contents and tossed them back in. He settles for a big smoothie, checks his cell for any messages or missed calls.  
Dean chooses that moment to emerge from wherever he went while Sam was out. Probably from the garage, judging by the oily smears on his hands and shirt.  
“What’s with you on your phone like a teenage girl all of a sudden?”  
“What’s with you not minding your business all of a sudden.”  
“I could use some business to mind.”  
“Hm?”  
Dean gestured impatiently at the phone in Sam’s hands. “So do we have an actual hunt, or what?”  
“Uh, nope. Guess you’re going to have to entertain yourself for a bit.”  
Dean made a faint noise of disgust and wandered towards the kitchen. Sam could try to encourage him to look on the bright side, he supposed. They had an amazing place to live, the world didn’t appear to be imminently doomed, and with the welcome (albeit occasional) exception of Castiel, the extraplanar beings of their acquaintance were leaving them the hell alone. Sam opened his mouth to remind Dean to count his blessings, make the most of it, but on consideration, decided not to start what his brother would probably turn into an argument out of boredom.

Sam leaves him to it, and goes to sling his sweaty running clothes into the washing pile.  
His phone lights up with another call before long… sooner than he was really expecting, actually. He hits accept, thinking maybe it’s not-Giles; he doesn’t look at the number before he answers, and his stomach drops. He knows the voice on the other end, although for a second or two of mental zero-g, can’t place it.  
“Is that... Sam Winchester?”  
“… Sarah?”  
“Sam! Holy crap! So you remember me, huh?”  
“What? Of course I – ” Sam stutters, and they both break off into astonished laughter. It winds down quickly, and they’re both silent for a moment.  
“Sam… Jesus, it’s been… it’s been years, whatever happened to you?”  
Sam feels another lurch in the pit of his stomach at the thought of trying to begin to explain. “Oh… oh, that is a long story.”  
Hearing Sam’s half of the conversation, Dean pokes his head into the room. Sam puts his thumb over the microphone for a moment, beckons him over and stage-whispers “It’s Sarah Blake!” with his eyebrows halfway to his hairline. Dean looks a bit nonplussed for a second, then kind of pleasantly surprised too. Sam put the call on speaker.  
“Are you the one that…” he falters, realising he never asked not-Giles what his actual name was “whatshisface…”  
After a moment, Sarah lets him change the subject. “Adrian, Cedar Street Curios.”  
“Yeah… you’re his... guy in the know?”  
“Sure am.” Sam makes his way to the library and finds a couple of seats, swinging one around to rest his legs on. Sarah talks about what happened after they last said goodbye. Since the incident with the Merchant painting, Sarah had kept her eyes peeled for anything strange or nasty, and turned out to be pretty damn good at it.  
Sam feels a spasm of guilt when she mentions she had tried to contact him, a couple of years ago; she’d been struggling with ‘one of those evil monkey things,’ and silly as that sounded, she’d been scared at the time. She keeps all but the barest hint of disappointment out of her voice. What was he supposed to say about that? I’m sorry I didn’t pick up, but I might have been burning in Hell at the time?  
Other than that, he listens in a sort of mellow shock to it all. After deciding it would be better to break off contact all those years ago, never expected to have an opportunity to get in touch to just land in his lap like this.  
After a little while, he realises Dean seems to have wandered off to blast his crusty old rock through the bunker again. Sam’s a little disappointed, thought his brother might want to say hi to Sarah too, but then, he wasn’t the one who’d had a... thing with her.  
Sam manages to steer the conversation to the present, asking if she can take a look at the pictures he sent, explaining that they’re doing a favour for a friend. Sarah agrees readily enough, says it might not be right away. Sam ends the conversation buoyed with a rare bubble of happy anticipation, looking forward to talking again. He doesn’t even mind much when he has to trail around the bunker, turning off the music and the cranked-up TV that Dean has turned on and left for some damn reason. 

The next day, instead of staying out of the way and tinkering in the garage like he often did when he was a little restless, Sam found that Dean had been drinking around their living area, brazenly leaving the empties all over for his increasingly exasperated and bemused younger brother to find and clean up.  
When he told his brother to quit acting like a shitty teenage roommate and remember there were two people living here, Dean affected a baffled, slightly wounded air that had Sam grinding his teeth.  
“What the heck has gotten into you?”  
“What are you talking about? I’m just trying to entertain myself, like you said.” 

For his part, Dean had the most infuriating itch under the skin to be out and doing. He hated the emptiness, aimlessness, but he was rapidly getting sick of twiddling around with car guts and there’s only so many times he can clean and oil the guns. Joining Sam’s foray into the antiques business seemed like pointless make-work, plus, cool as it was for Sam to sort-of bump into Sarah after all this time, screw fielding the inevitable awkward questions.  
On impulse he went out for the afternoon, driving until he hit a town and looking around for thrift stores in Cawker City. He picked up a carrier bag of comfortably dog-eared paperbacks, and a few things from Lakeside Liquor. The long, straight road across the lake was pretty, and he thought he’d stop and skim stones for a little bit, maybe take his boots off and splash around, but the stillness and the quiet lap of the water were starting to freak him out within ten minutes. He got back behind the wheel and blasted the first cassette he grabbed, drove until he wound up in Beloit, but he got out of the car and realised he didn’t know what else he was looking for.  
Later, when he tried to settle in with one of the books, he found he couldn’t concentrate enough to absorb so much as a page, and flung it away in disgust. Thinks maybe something with pictures might be better. Masturbating does nothing to take the edge off, though.  
Everything is driving him a little bit nuts, and on top of it, Sam’s quizzical looks are starting to get on his nerves too. 

Sam, for all his occasional blind spots, is not stupid.  
He has a feeling something’s not quite right with Dean, can’t put his finger on what. He usually said where he was going when he disappeared for a day, or at least answered his cell. Maybe he needed to blow off some steam for some reason, although Sam was at a loss as to what that might be.  
He decided to say nothing for now, and let Dean get whatever it was out of his system however he wanted, nevermind if it meant he showed up missing his boots, with wet trousers and really vague answers.

The week rolled on, and Sam got chance to catch up with Sarah on a couple of calls, still skirting his side of the exchange and being sort of allowed to, vacillating about whether it was a good idea to catch up in person.  
Meanwhile, Dean didn’t seem to be exactly getting anything out of his system.  
Things got worse, rather than better. He seemed wired, tightly wound, and he was definitely not sleeping, either, like really not sleeping; earplugs or not, Sam heard him rattling about at all hours, still filling the bunker with the same old Lemmy and Snowy White and Robert Plant; he was starting to look like a walking hangover, and Sam was starting to wonder if his brother had started drinking Redline instead of soda again, dearly hoping not to repeat that ordeal. He had a feeling that wasn’t it, though. 

While Sam was trying to suss out what was eating his brother this time, Dean disappeared again.  
He came back with the car full of fresh food they didn’t need, god knew where from – armloads of Sam’s favourites that would rot faster than he could possibly eat them.  
Sam happened to be facing the wrong way, and didn’t see his brother wince as he crossed the threshold of the bunker on the way back in.  
Dean stayed on a weird jag of affection for the next few hours, ruffling Sam’s hair and telling him he was awesome and deserved whatever he liked. Then he got fidgety and disappeared again. Sam heard the music start up yet again, some thrashy Metallica whatever this time.  
Sam finds his brother stuffing his face with what looks like steak as if he hadn’t eaten in weeks. Any table manners he’d possessed seemed to have evaporated completely. He tries just plain asking if his brother’s okay, for all the good that might do. Trying to get a straight answer out of Dean was always like trying to shuck an oyster with a coffee stirrer, and he gets about the response he expected.  
“What the hell are you talkin’ about, Sam? I feel great.”  
Dean falters a bit when he hears that come out of his mouth, because actually, come to think of it, he doesn’t feel great at all. He tries to skim past it before that blip of unease can stick and sink in.  
“I’m fine. If there’s anyone you should worry about, it’s you. What have you eaten all day, a fromage frais?” He says it as if there was something worryingly bizarre about that, as though Sam had decided to eat a shoe or something.  
“Weak deflection, Dean. Come on, we both know how this goes. I’m going to figure out what gives eventually, and we’ll both wish you’d just spat it out sooner rather than later.”  
“’Kay.”  
“Is it – what?”  
“You want to talk, fine let’s talk. Come and sit with me... tell me what ol’ Sarah’s been up to, whatever you like.”  
Dean somehow cajoles Sam into joining him for some lunch despite his misgivings; he’s smiling kind of too much, sallow and unshaven. He doesn’t seem to realise he’s taking random bites out of almost everything he picks up, even the uncooked steak on the way to the pan. If there was anyone to admit it to, Sam would admit to being a little bit freaked out by that. He picked at what Dean put in front of him, thinking. So there was something definitely wrong with his brother. He didn’t seem to be hammered drunk, wasn’t slurring or crashing into furniture. Maybe he was sick.  
Just as Sam was considering breaking out the thermometer, Dean abruptly tossed something half- eaten over his shoulder and announced, ‘Imma puke,’ before shoving his chair back and wandering off. He came back a handful of minutes later and sat back down, apparently having forgotten about the whole talking thing. Sam wordlessly held out the water he’d poured.  
“The fuck do I want that for?” Dean snorted, swatting the glass aside. Sam watched as it splashed over his brother’s hand, but Dean only flicked the water at his brother’s face, and went straight back to gorging himself. He looked almost offended when Sam didn’t join him.  
“Hey, where are you going?”  
“Lost my appetite.”

A minute later Sam almost lost what little of the food he’d eaten; following an acrid smell back to the kitchen, he discovered Dean hadn’t bothered to go all the way to the bathroom. He’d come in here and spewed half-chewed, half-raw meat into the sink and just… left it steaming there.  
Sam, breathing through his mouth, turned the taps on and grabbed the nearest cleaning product he could dump in with the chunky slime and hoped the plumbing could cope with it. While the mess foamed and gurgled, he stood thinking back over the last few days, trying to pick out what had changed. 

It had occurred to him to be suspicious of the box, but when he examined it again, it still appeared to be nothing but old wood.  
There was still not a blip of EMF; he went to the Impala and dug out a sense-ill amulet they rarely used, and tried that; it didn’t twitch. He was ninety-nine percent sure it was nothing to do with Dean’s behaviour. It wasn’t like the guy needed supernatural assistance to be flaky.  
Ninety-nine percent.  
He took out his phone and brought up the number from his last inbound call. It’s not Sarah who answers.  
“Hello, Blake’s, how may I help you?”  
“I need to speak to Sarah. I’m a f -”  
“Ms Blake is unavailable at the moment.”  
“Please, it’s kind of urgent. I’m a friend.”  
Whoever it is that’s answered the phone agrees to pass the message to her as soon as possible. A little too casually maybe. Sam just has to wait, and needs to keep an eye on Dean in the meantime.

He grabbed some more water and went looking for his brother; maybe he could distract him with something, and get him to at least stay put long enough to figure out if he was just ill somehow.  
His route took him through the library, where again he came across the dregs of whatever the hell Dean had been drinking in there. Another bottle lay on its side, cap nowhere to be seen, and Sam’s nose filled with the weird combined smells of wet vellum and scotch. There was no sign of Dean there, so he followed the noise; he was not in the lounge with the TV, which was playing some action movie, all inaccurate gunfire and swearing. Sam checked the reading room, where his brother’s laptop and speakers were on full blast, but no Dean there either. Sam quickly checked his room, even the bathroom, still no sign. Empty bottles, half eaten food, and books flung all over the floor, but no Dean.  
Sam made his way to the garage, already knowing what he would find; the Impala was gone again. 

“… fuck.”

Without much hope, he tried calling Dean’s cell a couple of times. He heard the ringtone, loud and clear, from where the nokia lay, chipped and scuffed underneath one of the motorcycles.  
Sam took out his own cell and pulled up a map, started thinking about where in the blue fuck his brother could have gone this time. Thanks to a few tricks Charlie showed him, he’d be able to check for card activity, maybe any security cameras his brother passed by – although that was all a long shot if he didn’t want to be found; he pecked out a quick text to her in case she might have some other ideas, carefully not mentioning that it was because his brother had gone awol.  
In the meantime, he wracked his brains for ways of finding a slightly unhinged hunter, before things inevitably got ugly. 

Sam got a call not long afterwards. He grabbed it and answered without looking – but it wasn’t Charlie, Dean, or even Sarah.  
“Um, no. It’s me, Garth.” The signal was terrible, faint and indistinct. “Sam, your brother’s called me a couple times, asking about hunts... and, well... not to put too fine a point on it, he sounded weird. Called me a sfigato; you know what that is? Not a nice thing to call someone. And also untrue. Is somethin’ going on?”  
Sam floundered a little, trying to decide on the fly how much he wanted Garth to know.  
“Well... aha. You know Dean. He... gets weird sometimes.”  
The usually agreeable hunter wasn’t about to be thrown off so easily. “Okay that, that was not a real laugh; now I know something is up.”  
“Garth. It’s fine. I’m handling it.” That came out a little sharper than he meant it to.  
“If you say so.”  
Sam pauses. Garth may be an oddball, but by now he should know better than to talk to him like an idiot. It’s not like he could blame the guy for being concerned, given his and Dean’s track record for being at ground zero when things went wrong.  
“Look, he’s been acting strange the last couple of days, yeah. He took off in the Chevy, but the trunk wasn’t even fully loaded with our gear – just, if he calls you again, don’t put him onto anything, please.”  
“Don’t worry, I won’t. Told him as much, although he wasn’t happy about it. I’m not pryin’ or anything, but if you’re in a jam, I can head back.”  
“We’ll be fine.” Sam appreciates the offer, but at this point he’s not sure what he could ask Garth to do aside from put up ‘missing’ posters. 

That gets Sam thinking about who else he can ask for help.  
There was at least one other person Sam knew he could call on, who could get there fast no matter where he was coming from. He stood still, and concentrated.  
“Um… praying to the angel Castiel. I… may have a situation here. I could use your help. Please.”  
After a few moments, which Sam spent wondering how fast a prayer percolated through the universe, a knock was faintly audible from the entrance of the bunker. Sam hurried up the stairs to the door, where Castiel stood calmly, a few bits of dandelion fluff still settling around him.  
“Hello, Sam. What do you need my help with?”  
“Give you one guess.”  
Castiel scowled.  
“Did you call me here for a game?”  
Sam got to the point. “It’s Dean.”  
Castiel closed his eyes, and took a deep breath he didn’t technically need.  
“Tell me.”

Sam gave the angel a quick rundown of what had been going on, trying to stick to chronological order.  
“The whole thing started about a week ago; I wasn’t sure if it was coincidence, or anything to do with this...” Sam strode off through the bunker, still talking. Castiel followed him into a storage area, full of towering wooden cabinets.  
“I mean, could it be? I’ve been working on finding out where it came from, and what these markings are, but… no EMF, no aura, no sulphur, nothing.”  
The walnut box was still sitting in its drawer, looking just as inert as it had when it arrived eight days ago.  
Castiel reached in and took it, carefully. “You probably shouldn’t touch this if you’re unsure about it.”  
Sam thought about that. “We both touched it. I feel pretty much normal.”  
Castiel gave him a sidelong look, and turned the box over to look at the patchy inscription on the bottom.  
Unlike last time, when Sam had been perusing it, the lid flopped open easily. Sam stared.  
“Oh, crap. It didn’t do that before. Dean must have… dammit, he said he wouldn’t screw around with it!”  
Focusing, Castiel could just barely feel the faded remains of sigils inside the lid, the tattered layer of binding worked around and into the wooden case. It hung around the physical shape of it sloppily, with no more strength or cohesion than an old cobweb.  
“It seems like it had a binding on it.”  
Sam groaned. “Had?”  
“It’s faded away with time; looks like it might have been renewed once or twice then… gradually decayed away. It could have failed as little as a few days ago.”  
Sam slammed the drawer shut, fighting the urge to take the box and hurl it against a wall, suddenly full of seething frustration at their shitty, shitty luck.  
Castiel set the useless thing aside. “We need to know what was in there.”  
“That’s what I was planning to find out…” fists clenching, he looked up at Castiel, face pale and furrowed.  
“Cas, I don’t even know what this is. We have to get him back here before something happens. I don’t know where the hell he’s gone – can you bring him in?”  
“No.”  
Sam stared at him, incredulous. “What do you mean, ‘no’?”  
“His ribs, Sam. I still can’t find him unless he prays to me, and… he hasn’t.”  
Sam swore quietly.  
“I assume you tried his cell phone?”  
“. . . Yes, Cas. I tried his phone. No answer, because he threw it across the garage for some reason.”  
Castiel considered for a moment. True, he couldn’t instantly locate Dean, but their immediate options didn’t change.  
“You should stay where you are, and do what you can to find out what that was supposed to hold. I will find Dean.”  
There was something at least a little reassuring in Castiel’s calm statement of intent and unblinking gaze, and Sam had to agree he probably had the right idea, but he didn’t feel good about sitting on his backside waiting for news.  
“I’m not just going to dump this in your lap, Cas. Dean’s out there with God knows what messing with him; I need to be looking for him too.”  
“Unless you can fly, you’ll do Dean more good if you can figure out the ‘God knows what’ part. Now, sit. You didn’t finish explaining.”  
Sam almost snapped back at Castiel; stopped himself. Running a hand through his hair, he changed gear, gathered his thoughts, and reviewed what he had a hunch were probably the key details.  
“Dean was talking about going on a hunt, but I don’t think he actually found one. He’s been acting kind of manic, like a stimulus junkie, about everything. Food, drink, music, TV. Maybe he’s headed somewhere with a lot of… I don’t know, a lot of noise, music… It’s not a lot to go on. There aren’t many places near here that fit that description.”  
“He’s been gone for…” Sam glanced at his phone “… maybe a couple of hours. He could have gotten to a few places by now. Maybe as far as Hastings or Salina.” Castiel glanced at the map Sam was showing him on the screen, picking out more towns; he didn’t really need it, of course. It only confirmed what he’d already seen, from about the same angle.  
“Assuming he isn’t still driving, I can check those locations first. I need you to find out what I might encounter when I do find him.”  
Castiel heads to the door and departs without further ado, flecks of dust whisking up into the emptied space.  
When sounds a lot better than if. Sam nods, settles down at the keyboard with a couple of cell phones to hand, and gets to work, trying to push down bubbling memories of waking up bloody in a stranger’s house.

Castiel wonders if Sam is aware of just how fast he can fly. The kefitzat haderech allows him to reach dozens of locations in the space of a breath. What takes up valuable time is the fact that when he gets there, he has to rely mainly on the severely limited spectrum available to his vessel’s senses, since Dean remains cloaked from his other eyes. It’s a tedious process of elimination that ends, eventually, at Junction City.  
It becomes, unfortunately, very easy to find Dean there, simply by following the trail of petty destruction he has already left behind.  
There are a couple of police officers present outside a large music store, which has been enthusiastically raided, spilling glass and goods into the wet street. Castiel strides in without bothering to introduce himself. Evidently his appearance is sufficiently formal that no-one thinks to question his presence immediately. He does not have the time or the inclination to invent answers just now.  
The destruction inside is thankfully quite mild; no obvious casualties. Someone has, however, urinated on the classical music section for reasons unknown. Castiel can hear someone, presumably the storekeeper, recounting the incident to a police officer in the street.  
“He said, ‘Mazzuoli? Hey, I hate that guy,’ and just, whipped his freakin’ dick out and pissed all over the stock!  
So, I grab him and tell him to get the fuck out. And he says, he says something like, ‘plenty for you, too’, and the son of a bitch pisses all over me!”  
The officer sounded like he struggled with stifling a cough for a moment.  
“And that was when you struck him?”  
“Too fuckin’ right. Either he was crazy, or he was riding high because he carried right on talking like he didn’t even feel it. Asking me about what’s playing, where’s the fun at, where can he go to see some action around here. Then he ran around grabbing stuff like a kid loose at a pick’n’mix, and I called 911.”  
Overhearing that, Castiel resigns himself to the fact that Dean has probably managed to get himself possessed by something. Whatever the entity is, there will be one less of it before long. He casts about for any further clues. There’s a heap of leaflets scattered on and around the cashier’s desk, as if hastily pawed through. They are mostly advertising various types of musical lessons in exchange for money. Something sits crumpled on top; a pamphlet covered in little pictures of balloons, brightly dressed figures, cartoon cocktails and musical instruments. Castiel scanned the text briefly. Junction City Amateur Dance invites you to celebrate our 10th Anniversary. 

It doesn’t exactly require a huge leap of intuition to think of flying to the nearby address printed on it – a fairly large, plain block of a building opposite a park – and an even smaller leap to conclude that the pounding bass, howling voices and crashing of glass audible from inside the third storey may have something to do with Dean’s current problem, especially considering the Impala parked askew at the front entrance. A few people are milling about, some pausing in the street, looking like they are nearing the point where curiosity becomes concern. Castiel seals the building behind him so that no well-intentioned law enforcement can get underfoot, and makes his way to the source of the cacophony.

Things had escalated.  
Castiel immediately found Dean, who looked at first glance as if he was having a wonderful time in the main function room. He was already surrounded by several dozen people whipped to a drunken, bloody frenzy, caroming through quickstep and tango among broken tables and toppled speakers that were blasting out thunderous, high-tempo music; Dean himself lounged on the bar, laughing and yelling directions at the feverish assembly in between careless swigs of pilfered Hirsch bourbon.  
“Piu veloce! Piu veloce! Piu forte! Di piu!!”  
Castiel’s last faint hope that this wasn’t some sort of possession evaporated.  
The floor was covered in broken bottles and bloody bare footprints, air tinged with the mingling smells of sweat and alcohol.  
A dark, lean woman, wild-haired and sweaty, slid up beside Dean; he let her edge closer until their mouths were a hot breath apart – and burst out laughing when she slipped and stumbled drunkenly back into the glass-strewn mess, watching the whirling dancers trampling her carelessly as they passed. Her indignant shrieks added a sharp, insistent counterpoint to the din.

Castiel was less than pleased, needless to say.  
It was evident at a second look that Dean’s interloper, a little carried away with its freedom, had forgotten to water its meatsuit. Pale and sunken-eyed, Dean’s lips had dried, cracked, and bled. Either his shirt had gone missing, or he hadn’t managed to get dressed correctly in the first place, leather jacket unzipped over his bare chest.  
There was absolutely no leap of intuition required at all to spot the infuriatingly petty root of this mess; Dean’s anti-possession tattoo had been compromised by a small scab, no bigger than a fingertip, already half-healed. A burst blister, the work of an instant to erase. He should probably have burned that pentacle into his friend’s bones somewhere, he realises. He’ll have to remember to do that later, for Sam, too. 

The moment he feels the presence that has entered the room, Dean freezes, appearing to lose all interest in the sticky chaos he’s orchestrated around himself. Castiel pauses, watching. The entity attached to Dean doesn’t... really feel like a demon. There’s no smell of sulphur, no malevolent pressure against his senses. A close look reveals no more than a faint impression of a dirty shadow hovering around his friend, gone as if there’s nothing there when he tries to focus on it. Dean’s unseen soul remains a kind of fascinating negative space.  
He flings the bourbon aside carelessly and peers at Castiel, head tilted back, for a moment before it speaks.  
“… E vero?”  
If he had needed any more evidence that something was amiss, that would have done it. It was jarring to hear Dean’s usual drawl replaced with fluent Italian, as it was spoken in Tuscany over six centuries ago.  
“...Mi angelo!” Its wide-eyed look of shocked wonder splits into a grin of wild delight. Ruby drops ooze afresh.  
“Meraviglioso!” It crows aloud over the din. Instead of showing the least bit of fear or caution, it springs from its perch as if overjoyed to see him, striding between drifting balloons towards the angelo, arms outstretched and grinning.  
“Balla!”  
“Balla?” Castiel couldn’t make sense of its behaviour. It hadn’t come over hostile and black-eyed, hadn’t tried to escape. He could only assume it was attempting some sort of trick.  
“Balla, balla con me!!”  
The angel was braced for an attack of some kind, but leery of doing anything hasty that might harm Dean. He hesitated.  
The creature reached out with Dean’s hands, completely unabashed, riding a fresh peak of mad glee, and seized Castiel with such enthusiasm that the angel’s feet actually left the floor. It whirled him through half a dozen turns of tight, competent Viennese waltz, whooping and calling him dolce, terribile creatura.  
“Smettila!” Castiel spoke sharply. Gripping Dean firmly, but carefully, he commanded it in old Florentine Italian.  
“Rilasciare l’umano, subito.”  
With a promise of divine wrath underscoring the injunction, Castiel expected obedience, not what looks like genuine confusion.  
“Eh?”  
Castiel scowled, confused. He’d never seen a possession quite like this, if that was even what was happening here. He tried again, speaking very slowly and clearly.  
“Dean, there’s something wrong with you.”  
“Non ce modo! Ci stiando divertendo! It’s all good!” Dean yelled back, jubilant, oblivious; grinning a little too widely, pupils very dilated. He was barely audible over the bass and the crash of something going through a window pane.  
“Dean… you’re speaking medieval Italian.”  
There’s a moment of visible cognitive dissonance, and all of his manic animation evaporates, leaving Dean to suddenly come back to himself in old-fashioned closed hold, arms wrapped around something warm and very solid, with the angel’s steady raptor gaze boring into his eyes from a distance of about six inches.  
Dean froze. It look a long moment to make sense of his immediate surroundings. Then, he calmly closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and with a forced casualness, said;  
‘Wild stab in the dark... I’m possessed, aren’t I.’  
“Something like that.”  
Their exchange stalled somewhat at this point.  
Clearing his throat, Dean extricated himself, carefully not looking directly at Castiel for a moment.  
He looked around pretty much everywhere else, cringing slightly at the unrelenting noise, shoulders lifting in a reflexive little gesture that did nothing to help at all. “Uh… where am I?”  
Castiel, after a moment of consideration, gave the most concise answer that sprang to mind.  
“On a bender.”  
“What?”  
Now that they were a full arm’s length apart, the ongoing cacophony was making communication difficult. Dean, grimacing and avoiding flailing, whooping revellers, gestured vaguely at his ears to indicate he couldn’t make out what Castiel was saying. Something about a small object. It was doubly hard to concentrate right then, because he felt like absolute hammered crap and, of course, couldn’t exactly remember why. His jaw was throbbing, too. He shakily tipped a fallen chair right-way-up and slumped down in it, staring at the hectic, half-stripped crowd around him as he tried to reconnect the frayed ends of his recent memory. 

The forty-eight amateur ballroom dance enthusiasts and guests who’d had the misfortune to be in attendance when Dean arrived were, at that moment, thrashing out a bare-breasted mongrel samba to what a discarded CD case indicated was probably Rattamahatta by Sepultura. The result was admittedly quite impressive, however, the participants were bleeding, panting, and pouring with exhausted sweat. The sooner they could be released, the better.  
It should take only a gentle flexing of his grace to brush aside the not-a-demon’s grip on their minds, but they simply will not hold still to allow him to do it.  
Left unobserved in those few minutes, Dean’s uninvited guest took advantage of Castiel’s distraction, resurfacing sneakily and goading Dean’s dazed mind back onto its previous track.  
The angel was subsequently distracted from trying to heal giddy, uncooperative people by Dean merrily trying to thread his fingers through Castiel’s and pull him back into something that might have been a pasodoble.  
Struggling for an appropriate way to express his frustration, Castiel blew out the power.  
As the brilliant spray of sparks faded, darkess and quiet swallowed the room.

Whatever influence had held the dancers seemed to dissipate, leaving them stumbling to a pained halt. Castiel paid them no mind for the time being.  
For the first time since the angel caught up with him, Dean’s eyes had flooded dull and smoky, the long-dead lunatic riding him ranting and gesticulating wildly.  
“Tacet, Tacet!” Dean’s voice screeches. “Non piu silenzio!”  
Revealing itself was a mistake. Castiel stopped it – him – as it ran full-tilt for the window. He stepped into its space, too close for it to lash out at him and hurt Dean, and in the same movement pinned it against the smooth, white circle of a toppled dining table.  
“Enough! Ti ordino, esci!” Castiel had had enough of being fruitlessly cautious. He reached out, intending to drive the creature out of Dean with a touch.

He failed.

Whatever it was he was trying to seize and destroy simply disappeared, slithering away through unseen cracks, leaving only the disoriented host sprawled there awkwardly, slightly bewildered by the hand on his face and Castiel’s furious, appalled expression.  
“Uh… Cas… what the -”

Castiel doesn’t wait for his friend to regain his equilibrium. He can at least physically keep hold of Dean before anything else goes wrong. Scowling, he brushed his fingertips gently over his clammy forehead, putting him soundly to sleep. Dean went lax on a soft exhale, question unfinished, sagging at the knees and kept from collapsing by Castiel’s easy grip. The angel waited to see what happened.  
Dean’s new acquaintance did not re-emerge; at least, not while it was being watched. The thought occurred to him that he should perhaps have tried this first, which only added to his chagrin.  
Clutching the back of Dean’s jacket with one hand to keep him somewhat upright and out of the glass, Castiel paused to observe the locals, who were standing around, readjusting to their lucidity and accompanying soreness. Thankfully, their remaining injuries were now easily removed.  
“You should all drink some water. Then go home.”  
He left before any of them could ask what just happened.

Castiel did not fly far, taking them only to the front seat of the Impala just outside. Keeping a close eye on Dean in case the… thing tried escaping again, he fished the cellphone out of his pocket. He needed to know exactly who or what this nebulous pest was. It was answered on the first ring.  
“Sam. I’m afraid I can confirm that we... have a situation.”  
“Cas! What’s going on, did you find him?”  
“Yes; I’m afraid he is showing signs of possession, after a fashion.”  
There was a pause.  
“Hang on. You mean, ‘was’, right?”  
“I… can’t get it out of him. It just keeps slipping away.” Castiel admitted sourly.  
“What do you mean? Cas, tell me. How bad is it?”  
“He appears to have driven a group of civilians into a drunken frenzy,”  
“How bad -”  
“Don’t interrupt. I was able to heal them. He also tried to… dance with me.”  
“What?”  
“And he is speaking in fluent medieval Italian.”  
“Okay, yeah. That’s definitely not him, but...” Castiel heard the rustle of pages in the background “...what you’re describing lines up with what I have here pretty well.”  
“You’ve identified it?”  
Sam made a little negative sound before continuing. “I don’t have a name.” There was the soft rustle again of callused fingers leafing through pages. “But get this.”

\---

While Sam had been combing through one of several volumes looking for mentions of atypical possession, Sarah had called back.  
“Hi Sam, I got a message, what’s up?”  
“Sarah. Did you have chance to look into that box yet?”  
“Not yet; you didn’t say it was urgent or anything.”  
“I didn’t think it was – ”  
“ – But it is now. Okay.” Sarah’s tone is cool, businesslike, and Sam gets the impression she really has had practice dealing with this kind of sudden escalation.  
“Hang on, keep your phone on you.”

Sam makes use of the time, reluctantly preparing the heavily reinforced secure room deep in the bunker, laying out whatever tools he thinks he might need. He’s happy to be pulled away from that grim task by the next call. 

“Okay, here it is. I haven’t had one of these sold through us, but they’re not unknown.” Sarah paused, sounding like she was sipping something in between sentences. It reminded Sam of his dry mouth. Phone pressed to his ear, he went to get juice – avoiding looking at the sink – while she talked. “We’re looking at Renaissance, early Renaissance, thirteen hundreds, so that thing is in the neighbourhood of seven centuries old. It’s a game piece box, also used for gambling tokens, trinkets, love notes, that kind of thing. They get bought by museums sometimes when they turn up in good condition – they were pretty commonplace in their time, but finding one intact with anything in it is rare.”  
“Not rare enough. Anything on where it came from?”  
“I’ve got a picture of something similar… not the same one, I don’t think, but close. Made in Firenze – that’s -”  
“Florence, I know.”  
“Yeah. Florence, late fourteenth century. Think like, a trendy item to take to parties. Fancy ones were used as a kind of status indicator, one more way of showing off your wealth. Like a gold iPhone case or whatever.”  
“This one’s just plain wood.”  
“It’s between six and seven hundred years old; it probably used to be fancy. Look closely and you can see where it would have had things like pearl inlay, or precious metals.”  
“Any stories, urban myths connected with things like this?”  
“Not really.” She sighed in frustration. “This isn’t helping much, is it?”  
“No, no, this is good, I’ve got a… a jumping-off point. I can do this. Thank you.” He barely heard her reply, closing the phone, already heading for the section of the library he thought might have the goods, depending on whether the collection was grouped chronologically or otherwise.

After a short search, he found the Men of Letters’ collection of historical occult studies from Italy; alchemy, necromancy, demonology… there was a well-documented tradition there in particular.  
Talking himself through it under his breath, he started plucking books from the shelves, running through the puzzle pieces he had so far.  
Renaissance Italy, fourteenth century, Florence.  
Curses, demon activity, demon deals, ghosts.  
High society. Gambling. Who were the rich and famous in late fourteenth century Florence, and had something to do with the occult. It turned out to be a much longer list than he would have liked.

Sam carried on skimming through the fat books, sneezing occasionally, up to his elbows in flaking gold leaf, peeling leather, and delicately hand-marbled paper. 

By the time Castiel called, he was pretty sure he had almost exactly what they needed.

\--

“It’s practically a case study. It was actually right here in the library, I just needed to know what to look for.  
The only thing is, it doesn’t have the thing’s actual name; just some nickname they used to mock him with; Signore Strepitoso.”  
Sam related the painstakingly translated passage in choppy sentence fragments. “Some nut job Florentian socialite, calls him ‘a despised man -’”  
“A politician.”  
“W – No. A composer. Called himself a genius but couldn’t put two notes together. Suddenly became filthy rich and renowned, despite his supposed symphonies sounding, ah, ‘fatto di incubi,’ ‘made of nightmares.’”  
“Another musician who sold his soul.”  
“It sounds like it. Anyway, he didn’t make it to ten years; went through six years of sex, drugs, and harpsichord before I guess somebody’d had enough, he gets murdered; according to this, they ‘cut him until every drop of blood had run out.’”  
Castiel thought that might make sense, given what he’d seen upstairs, but kept silent and let Sam finish.  
“The way this all ties together, I’ve got a strong feeling that this is who was in the box, but I haven’t figured out how he got in there. Sarah said that parts of it are missing anyway, so no wonder any sigils keeping that thing in there stopped working.”  
Castiel made a thoughtful sound, digesting the information before responding, steady gravel tones sounding oddly dejected over the phone. “Good work, Sam.”  
There was another beat of silence from Sam. “We can figure this out. Just get him back here.” He hung up.

In the meantime, Castiel could least restore the proper balance of water, electrolytes and so on in Dean’s body. He erased the crackles of blood and flaking skin on his lips, took the translucent violet-grey out of his eyelids, brushed away the swelling bruises and tiny fractures his body’s rather careless usurper had collected. He also purged a large quantity of bourbon before Dean’s body could continue to absorb it. That would have to do for now. The sleep should help replenish his strength. Castiel was assuming he would need it. 

It was full night when Castiel appeared at the front entrance of the bunker, thwarted and glowering. Sam reached out to take his brother, since their friend was dragging him along by the scruff and seemed pretty pissed about it, but the angel just ignored him and hauled the unconscious Winchester straight through the bunker, to the secure room and its waiting chair. Sam followed briskly, drawing breath to remind Castiel to go easy – but he noted that instead of dropping his brother into the seat like a sack of potatoes, he kept his hand on the back of Dean’s skull so that it didn’t hit the backrest.  
Sam quickly got to work making sure his brother stayed put, just in case he woke up not quite feeling himself.  
“Cas, what gives? Why couldn’t you get rid of this thing?  
Castiel thought for a moment about how to put his reply. “It’s not powerful. Just… sly. Small enough to hide. There’s a chance that Dean should be able to expel it of his own volition.”  
“So... you can’t get it out of him?”  
“As I said, no.” Castiel snapped, nettled.  
Sam looked at his brother thoughtfully.  
“Damn. I’m... going to have to get his clothes off.” Sam concluded with a mix of distaste and resignation.  
“What for?”  
“In case he has a mark on him. Like when I – when Meg -”  
Castiel simply pointed. “Look at his anti-possession tattoo.”  
Sam lifted the edge of Dean’s jacket, then covered his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose.  
“You’re kidding me.”


	2. Sviluppo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stage one of mitigating the cock-up completed, the boys get on with stage two.

Dean came to fairly easily, not quite catching the conversation beyond his brother’s exasperated comment. He feels better than he expects to – although he’s still a bit fuzzy on the whys and whens – and thinks for a second or two that whatever happened must be over. Then he registers the duct tape around his wrists, ankles, thighs, and torso. The sensation forms relatively comfortable bands of firm pressure, nevertheless he is definitely not going anywhere; his little brother’s conscientious but reassuringly thorough handiwork.  
He looked around, and groaned in dismay at the concentric rings of sigils and geometric patterns chalked all around the floor. And the ceiling. And Sam and Cas staring at him. Recollection came crashing back with ugly clarity.  
“Oh, shit.”  
Sam let out the breath he’d been holding. “Dean.”   
“Dammit, I was hoping I was having a fucked up dream.”  
“Unfortunately, you are having a fucked up reality.” Castiel informed him blandly.  
“So tell me what else is new.” he muttered, blinking. “So. I assume I’ve still got something in me?” Dean scowled miserably at them “What have you guys been doing all this time?”   
He shrank back in the chair as Castiel rounded on him.  
“Cleaning up your mess!”   
“Yeah, you think maybe you should shut up, Dean?” Sam, shot over his shoulder, turning to put away the last roll of duct tape. “You did kinda bring this on yourself.”  
Dean gladly focused on his brother rather than the fuming angel. “The fuck? How is this my fault? I don’t even know how I picked up a hitchhiker in the first place!”  
“Really?”  
“Really!”  
“So you didn’t open the box?”   
“What kind of idiot do you think I am? Of course I didn’t -”   
“Will both of you. Shut. Up.”

Castiel gave Dean a curt explanation of what they thought was going on, and concluding that he wasn’t so much possessed as infested.   
It took some doing, but he and Sam pushed Dean into talking about what he remembered feeling in the preceding days.  
Dean had no memory blanks he was aware of… but had to conclude that didn’t mean much when Sam filled in a few things from his point of view.  
“It sounds like it’s just… pushing you. Building up to – ”  
“Yeah we can guess it wasn’t building up to anything good.”  
Castiel repeated what he’d said before about it being evasive rather than strong, and told him there was still a chance he could eject it by will. Dean looked sceptical.   
“It’s… slippery, but it’s not truly a demon. You may be able to force it out, now that you’re aware of it.”  
Dean rolled his eyes and slumped as much as the duct tape would allow. “You’re tellin’ me I lost my possession cherry to a D-lister? This just gets better and better.”  
“Dean, you should worry less about fruit-based euphemisms and concentrate on getting rid of this thing. You should try now, before it gets stronger.”  
Sam cut in, ignoring that ominous caveat and doubling down on the angel’s optimism. “It’s possible, Bobby did it once.”  
“Yeah, well, I’m not Bobby.” He muttered, bitterly.  
Dean stalled, an awful feeling balled up tight in his stomach that this was a bad idea, but he took a stab at it. After a few minutes trying to concentrate, thinking, get out, he breaks off with a shake of his head and a sudden, flat “Nope,” as his ears begin to ring and his blood pounds nastily.   
“Whoa. I knew that wouldn’t work. I think I just pissed it off.”   
He looked up at Cas and Sam, both making big worried eyes at him. “Come on, don’t look at me like that. I’m tryin’. I don’t know what you’re expecting. I can’t... feel anything to push against; ’s like trying to find a contact lens in a swimming pool.”   
He wasn’t going to let on that their collective failure was starting to freak him out, not now.  
Dean squared his shoulders, put on his game face. “Alright, whatever plan ‘C’ is, let’s get to it. I’m ready.”  
“Okay, but I think you’re gonna want a drink, first.” Sam held a plastic cup to his mouth.   
Dean shot his brother a brief glare over the rim, but he he sipped. Although there’s no telltale hiss and sizzle, he spits and recoils. “Che cazzo e? Holy water with salt? Come on, man, don’t do that to me!”  
Sam sighs; he doesn’t think Dean’s aware of the language slip. He ignores it and begins the old exorcizamus te. He kept the incantation up while his brother writhed about, lips pulled back from his teeth, tendons standing out in his neck. Sam and Castiel expected to see something forced out at any second, but… it didn’t seem to go any further than that. Sam continues with the familiar Latin, but it looks like the exorcism is just hurting his brother. Or something is. A minute later, it’s audi nos and still nothing. The only tangible result is Dean gasping and beaded with cold sweat.  
“Ow. Well, now I have a headache too. Wonderful.” Blinking, he’s starting to look unfocused, spaced out, as if he’d just been whacked around the head with something heavy. Sam crouched in front of his brother, alarmed and hiding it poorly. “Hey, stay focused, eyes on the road, come on.” He snapped his fingers in front of Dean’s face.   
Sam stopped him talking, pushed some gatorade at him. They let Dean have a breather, while they tried to figure out what was going wrong. 

“Why didn’t it work?” Sam kept his cool, and kept his voice even, with some effort.   
Castiel simply remained staring at Dean, who sat with eyes shut, pulling in big, deliberate breaths, as his hands tighten, release, tighten, release on the arms of the chair.  
Sam answered his own question. “That exorcism is meant for demons, and, strictly speaking, this thing isn’t one, right? So it didn’t stick.”  
“Obviously.” Castiel didn’t look up.   
“How about... if we treat it like a ghost instead?” He waited for a handful of seconds; when he didn’t get a reply, he walked out and went to gather up the books again and heaved the whole stack down to the secure room, where Castiel could read the untranslated parts more quickly than Sam could slog through them. They tried some of the more obscure banishments, made a half-dozen failed attempts, each one leaving Dean looking more exhausted and acting more agitated, pulling against the tape restlessly. The room began to acquire a creeping smell of sweat, with a faint acetone tang.

“I really don’t like this, Cas. As far as I can tell, we’re not making any progress at all.”   
Castiel had nothing reassuring to offer. “No. And the longer we take, the stronger that thing will get.”  
Sam hung his head low for a second, swearing tiredly.  
Castiel paid no attention, thoughtful.   
When Sam looked up again, the angel pitched his voice for both brothers to hear.   
“...You might not like this.”  
Dean pulled back in the chair, looking more than a little apprehensive, but said nothing. Sam spread his hands wide, gesturing at the discarded volumes. They were running low on options. “Hit me.”  
“I think we need to talk to it.”  
Dean nodded as if in agreement, before responding. “You’re right; I don’t like it.”  
Sam turned to him. “Well if you can think of anything else, we’re happy to hear it.” Sam waited, fixing his brother with a look that mixed apology and frustration with more than a little impatience.  
There was a pause.   
“Eh, I got nothing. Bring it.”

Castiel outlined the plan simply, then he helped Sam check and recheck all the wards before their next gambit, and with some distaste, figured out a solution to Dean’s need for bathroom breaks in the meantime.   
Sam and Castiel seemed to take turns disappearing for the next couple of hours, always one of them keeping an eye on an increasingly fidgety Dean.   
Eventually, Dean was pleased to see his brother bringing in bags of bottles and cans. Not empty ones, this time.   
“Awesome, I could use a drink about now. You can’t just leave me here like a bug stuck on flypaper, you know. This is driving me maledettamente pazzo!”   
“Sorry, Dean. It’s... not exactly for you.” Sam opened a mixed handful of beers, wines, and whiskeys, poured a few into plastic cups; enough for the room to fill with the smell. Castiel appeared with a paper sack smelling deliciously of hot grease.  
Sam, hoping this would be the only time he willingly subjected himself to Italian speed metal, then plugged his phone into the stereo and hit ‘play’.   
Dean’s face fell. “Oh. I see.”   
“Sorry.” Castiel’s apology was muffled by burger.  
“I’m not even gonna ask if you know what you’re doing.”  
Sam shrugged. “Hey, it’s worth a try, right?”  
Dean nodded. “Okay, Signore Strepitoso. It’s party time. Center stage.” 

At first, the phantasm seems to have developed a touch of stage fright, and shows no sign of surfacing. Castiel watches patiently for a handful more minutes, then approaches.  
Dean squirms a bit as Castiel leans in close and all but whispers a challenge in his ear; “Condividi vino con me... Balla, balla con me. Ti sfido.”  
I dare you.  
That gets a result. The change comes on suddenly enough that Sam hopes his brother doesn’t feel it. Dean’s eyes roll up murky, the thing straining forwards in its restraints to declare its acceptance.   
“Accetto!”  
It’s the first time Sam has seen it grab control. Castiel is mildly impressed – Sam can’t stop the colour leaching out of his face but his expression only wavers toward fright briefly, before hardening into something almost calculating.   
“There you are.”   
Castiel himself was resisting the temptation to smite it, fairly sure it wouldn’t work any better than the last time.  
“Dammi un po 'di quello, carino per favore?” it asked, in a sad, pleading tone. Sam can tell roughly what that means without having to look to Castiel, guessing from the deep inhales and the longing looks it’s giving the assorted beverages.   
“Sure, we’ll share. You just have to talk to us a little, first.”   
“Yes, let’s talk, but let me wet my lips a little...” it wheedles, fogged eyes following the whiskey bottle Sam isn’t really drinking from.   
“Talk first. Who were you?”   
It rocked side-to-side, chair creaking where it was bolted to the concrete floor. “Non Io so! I don’t know! Just, give that to me, come on, share a drink with me.”  
“All you have to do is say your name. Then we’ll drink with you.”  
Its face turned ugly, and it squirmed in its tape cocoon. “Vaffanculo! The only answer I can give you is silence! Silent so long, even my name died!”  
“What do you know?”   
It beckoned Sam closer.   
“I know I was cheated! I said to them, bring me down, then, and I will conduct the symphonies of Hell! La cacofonia! Yes! What did they give to me instead? Peace and quiet! Silence! Their little joke, you see. I would rather have howled on the rack!”   
“Oh, but now, now I am here with you, and you have brought me music.”   
Its mood flipped again from hysterical to eager. “I will make a song for you! Listen -”  
It sucked in a huge breath and began shrieking along to the music at the top of Dean’s lungs, drowning out the frenetic lead guitar and crashing percussion still playing from Sam’s phone. It was more or less unintelligible to Sam, but Castiel heard every grotesquerie. He cut it off at “sborra sanguinoso - !”   
“Enough.”  
It broke down in giggles, smirked at him. “Or what, you will smite me?” It raised Dean’s hand as far as it could in a childish gesture. “I’d like to see you try, volante succhiacazzi. Questo è il mio buon amico, he freed me, and we will make a great sinfonia together, and you, you beautiful everlasting cocksucker, you will dance with me again.”   
As it chuckled, apparently thoroughly amused with itself, Sam shot a worried look at Castiel. “Is this what it was like before?”  
Castiel shook his head, drew breath to draw comparison, but the thing started talking again.   
“Besides, mi bello angelo, mi amati fratellino, if you displease me, I can do this, eh?”  
A blurt of blood erupted from Dean’s nose. It clownishly mimicked Sam’s horrified expression and cackled, dribbling.   
“Io non sono stupido. So che sei geloso.” It grinned with blood-smeared teeth. “I know you won’t hurt me while I have your tesoro.” It drew out the last word mock-tenderly, licked at the red smears on Dean’s upper lip and continued, smugly.  
“Don’t look so sour. You’ll get used to me, all three of you. I’m fun. We’ll all have a great time.”  
“You’re going back where you came from.”   
“Nah, nah. It’s good here, so good. Molto caldo e luminoso.” It winked at Castiel, who, in a stone- faced fury, reached out and did the only thing he could; put him to sleep again.  
Sam stared at his brother’s slumped body, annoyed.  
“Dammit, Cas, we didn’t get anything useful. We just got Dean a nosebleed.”  
“That’s the least of his problems.” Castiel stopped the bleeding with an impatient gesture.  
Sam sighed. “Back to the goddamn drawing board, then.” He shut the music off, then went to get some coffee for himself and breakfast shakes for Dean from the kitchen. It still stank in there, but that was where he ended up sliding to the floor and sitting for a couple of minutes while the coffee brewed, just for a quick breather.   
It would have been good timing if Sarah or even Garth had picked that moment to call and check how they were doing, but he’d already felt his phone buzzing in his pocket and had to ignore it three, maybe four times.

After that, Sam yet again went back to doggedly combing through the books for anything that might work. It had been a while since they’d encountered a gap in their paranormal toolkit like this, but it had to be here. Medieval European history read like one big haunted house in these volumes, so they must have had a way to deal with stubborn infestations like this, otherwise there wouldn’t have been anybody left to die of plague.   
Dean went quiet for a while. It started to worry Castiel a little, who waved a hand in front of his friend, crouched to check on him, especially the eyes. “Dean, say something.”  
Dean shrugged him off, as much as the tape would allow. “Knock it off, Cas, I’m not that bad. Just thinking.”  
The sallow, drained look Dean was developing said otherwise, but Castiel withdrew. “Go on.”  
Dean waited until Sam looked up as well.   
“Bore it out of me.”  
“With what!?” Sam’s eyebrows shot up in alarm; he’d been skimming a section on exorcism by trepanation.  
Dean shot Sam a faintly perplexed look. “Boredom.”  
Sam and Castiel caught on more or less simultaneously.  
“We get it out of you... by being boring?”  
“Bingo.” Dean turned to Castiel. “You said it has a short attention span, right?”  
Sam glanced at Castiel too; the angel simply nodded.  
“So, maybe we can just... do nothing, and wait for it to pop out like a tapeworm.”   
“Gross, Dean.”   
“No, listen. We’ve tried everything else. Let’s starve it out.”  
Sam thought about that for a moment, then shoved his latest book aside. “Worth a try.” 

A couple more hours of careful preparation, and their latest plan – somewhere around plan ‘J’, they’d stopped keeping track – was underway. Dean was almost regretting his suggestion. “Ugh. fuck this, I’ll just stay possessed. It’ll be fine.”   
“Shut up, Dean.” Sam replied over the walkie-talkie they’d set up as a baby monitor. “Trust me, you want to make this work.” Their alternatives were getting scarce, and Sam didn’t want to end up sizing up drill-bits.   
Dean went along with it, since it was his idea, making every effort to have an incredibly dull evening. He reclined quietly by himself, duct taped to a vintage chaise lounge, with, thanks to Castiel, a soft madrigal attributed to Giovanni Mazzuoli playing on the gramophone. No laptop, no TV, no smartphone, no disturbances. It was actually pretty comfortable to begin with, lying in sensible pyjamas and a nice, soft robe. They’d decided not to risk a cup of milky tea, opting to keep both hands firmly taped. He thought he might actually fall asleep at first, but he guessed his dirty little hitcher must have had other ideas because the more he tried to relax, the twitchier he felt.  
Dean tried to talk himself through it internally, to just pretend to ignore the dead bastard and be patient. Time dragged on, and his nerves were winding tighter as the soft crackle of the gramophone signalled the end of Appres un Fiume for the fifty-seventh time.   
The fifty-eighth time finally proved too much.   
The soft music was too delicate, too faint; at any moment it could fade into silence, total silence and nothingness. He’d be trapped, he needed to get out, he’d be left here alone for eternity if he didn’t do something. Dean recognised that the jab of terror he felt was alien, and then everything was blank.   
Poised outside, Sam and Castiel brace themselves. 

“Fucking dickless Mazzuoli! How can you do this to me?!”   
The dead Florentian sits bolt upright, taking chunks of tape and upholstery with it, and starts trying to storm across the wards, but the combination of arcane barriers prepared by a lifelong hunter and a seraph do their job. It howls and throws the furniture at a door it cannot reach.  
“You think you can leave me here? Ora sono incazzato!”  
Sam and Castiel hear something, faintly, that may or may not be the wet snap of a small bone.   
Castiel’s face twists, and the door would have been in pieces in that moment if not for Sam signalling urgently for him to wait, hands spread wide in a silent plea.  
There’s some unintelligible screeching, and a metallic crunch that probably signals the demise of the gramophone, followed by a handful of long seconds of ominous quiet.  
“Intollerabile!”  
With a screech of frustration, the dead composer vacates whatever part of Dean’s being it had latched onto. For Dean, it’s a jarring jump-cut from being pushed under that wave of panic, to being dropped to the floor at the threshold while a jet of filth hurled itself out of his mouth.  
Smog vents, nowhere near the noxious volcanic plume of a full demon, but certainly a lot thicker than it was last Tuesday night. Dean abruptly develops a lot more sympathy for anyone he’s ever exorcised; the sensation is vile, he can’t breathe or get away from the feeling of decay boiling out from inside him.  
He’s too dazed for a second to do more than stare up at it as it gets bounced around by unseen warding, an indistinct shape wreathed in filth. Dean has just enough presence of mind to take one step back, in time to see something flatten itself against an invisible barrier, which is briefly revealed to be dome-shaped as the spirit pinballs around its new confines, a distorted remnant of a human figure half-dissolved in rank, greasy fumes.  
Dean really wishes he hadn’t looked, but now that he has, he can’t pull his gaze off the thing and stares in rapt revulsion, until Sam and Castiel burst into the room and push him aside.  
Dean doesn’t quite follow what Sam does then, crouched on the floor, intent on something; a shadow blocks his view. It takes him a second to focus, and Castiel shakes Dean a couple of times when he doesn’t respond to his name being called, herds him out of the room. He goes on shaky legs, reaching a chair still warm from someone else’s backside before he has to slump down in the corridor. A chilly feeling like blood loss washes over him, and though he’s sure he’s not bleeding, he loses a couple of chunks of time to the fuzzy greyness and ringing ears. He’s kind of aware of light touches to his face but finds himself moving too slowly to bat them away, swiping the air a few seconds after the contact is gone. Giving up on coherence any time soon, he slithers out of the chair and lays his cheek on cool floor, and hopes they let him lie there in peace for a while.

**Author's Note:**

> Ugh. Sorry.  
> SORRY.  
> And also thank you to anyone that read this far.  
> This is probably a mess. Like a bad omelette made from good eggs.  
> I only seem to be able to cobble things together at a snail's pace.  
> Although, good news, this thing is nearly finished, the next two bits are actually mostly assembled.  
> Very open to feedback.


End file.
